Phoenix
by Jessa4865
Summary: "The phoenix hope, can wing  her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise" – Miguel de Cervantes  Carter/Reese, continuation of Ashes, 2 parts total, T for language
1. Chapter 1

"**The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise" – Miguel de Cervantes**

Phoenix  
>Jezyk<br>Spoilers: Anything through Blue Code  
>Disclaimer: Not mine<p>

Author's note: This is a sequel to my fic Ashes, which would be tremendously helpful to have read if you'd like to understand the situation here.

Part One

She didn't know what to do. Never in her life had she known anyone who so thoroughly uprooted her world. From the first moment she'd seen him, she'd been drawn to him. Something about those haunted eyes possessed her with the need to know what drove the tortured man. But it had been more than that too, more than the desire to understand him. She felt like she already knew him, like she needed to know him better, like he was a trusted friend she just hadn't met yet.

She'd chased him, growing more and more obsessed with seeing him again, with the idea of actually getting on even ground with him. His elusiveness only spurred her on, his taunting of her making her desperate to know if he felt it too or if she'd imagined this connection. Once she'd finally met him, once she'd started working with him, it hadn't helped. He hadn't become any easier to read or understand. The man remained a complete mystery. It was mind boggling. The better she knew him, the less she knew him it seemed. The more time she spent with him the more confusing it all became.

The only thing she knew for certain, the only thing that had never changed, was that she cared for him. Irrational. Ill-advised. Unbelievably stupid. Yes, she knew all that was true. But she also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was in love with the enigma.

She'd thought it would kill her to leave him. Losing her husband, telling her young son that his father was dead, it hadn't compared; nothing had hurt as much as the idea of never seeing John again. But she didn't have a choice, not with Snow and his cronies breathing down her neck, not after they'd scared the shit out of Taylor.

John was all about protecting people, after all. She was sure he'd understand that she had to protect her son.

At least, that was what she'd told herself.

She'd tried to break it to him slowly, tried to get him to understand. Snow knew, somehow he knew about their connection if he didn't know about their working relationship. It wasn't just to protect Taylor. She'd seen what Snow would do if he found John. She wasn't going to lure John to his death. The only thing she could do to keep all of them safe was to cut ties with John and Finch.

She tried to explain herself, her motivation. Despite his continuous flirting, she'd come to the conclusion that her feelings were unrequited. He was a handsome, confident, skilled man and charismatic as all hell. It was simply easier to flirt his way into what he wanted than any other option. He had to know how she felt, how she smiled and blushed like a school girl when he smiled at her. She'd given him credit for never mentioning how easily he'd manipulated her. He deserved credit for never using her feelings for him against her.

It had thrown her when he'd reached for her, his hands on her cheeks as he solemnly promised he would protect her. She hadn't been prepared for the pleading, heartbroken eyes.

She honestly hadn't realized she would be hurting anyone besides herself by separating them. And even after she saw how much pain she was causing him, there was nothing she could do. It was still the safest thing for all of them. Actually, seeing that he was so attached to her proved that he wouldn't be able to make any rational decisions. She had to do it.

When he'd finally understood that her mind was made up, when he'd given into his anger and stormed away from her, she'd been desperate for one more moment of eye contact, one last chance to let him know she was hurting too, but he'd refused it. He'd been wrapped up in his own pain. He'd been too angry. She hadn't been able to blame him.

She remembered the way he'd looked when he came to her door. Unkempt and unshaven and lost, she hadn't known what to do. She'd broken the man. Completely. In a way Snow probably would have envied her for. She'd put up token resistance, faked being angry when all she'd wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and promise that she'd never hurt him again.

And then, oh god, the way he'd touched her. The look in his eyes when he'd finally put his hands on her. He'd hidden his desire, his attraction so well. But when he let her see it, it overwhelmed her. She hadn't bothered pretending to resist at that point. She'd wanted him every damn bit as much as he'd wanted her.

In those few, precious, intimate moments, she'd thought somehow everything would be ok. Certainly they'd both suffered enough in their lives that they deserved to have that little bit of comfort. She'd believed it so fully that, even though she'd been full of venom, angry with the situation rather than him, she'd given herself to him. She'd let him in.

She'd stupidly envisioned that they'd make their way to her bedroom and make love slowly, exploring each other's bodies and letting their romance bloom in peace, if only for a short while before facing reality. She would have trusted him then, lying exhausted and sated in his arms, and accepted his pledge to keep her and Taylor safe.

Hell, she'd have happily agreed if he'd asked her to marry him.

Instead of reaching out to her, instead of trusting her, he'd recoiled. He'd pulled away and fled in terror. He'd been so sure she would hurt him again.

He'd refused her the hug or sweet kiss that would have reassured her. For those few moments, he'd seemed to shut down on her. He was walking away.

So she tried to build her walls back up, the very ones he'd just completely destroyed, pretending that she was still convinced that parting ways was best for them.

It was only then that she realized how thoroughly wrong she'd been. He wasn't strong and confident; he was weak and scared. He put on the bravest front he could, and it was damn good. It had certainly fooled her. He'd needed her to be the one to reach out. He'd opened himself up enough to show her he wanted her. He'd made sure she was willing when it came down to it. He'd been afraid that he'd hurt her.

The son of a bitch had needed reassurance.

He'd needed to be told everything was ok.

He'd needed a god damned hug.

But rather than ask her, he'd assumed she hadn't been willing to give him that, not even after she'd given him her body. He just walked away.

If he'd told her where he was calling from, she would have followed him. She would have held him until he begged for mercy.

Maybe he'd changed his mind about calling. Maybe he'd expected her to find him.

But fuck if that wasn't far more complicated than it should have been.

Under normal circumstances she'd just have a trace run on her phone, but this wasn't some perp. This was John. And with Snow watching her every move, he'd have the address before she did. There was only one person she would trust with the number John had called from, only one person she could hope to help her find where John was staying.

Unfortunately she had no way of getting in touch with Finch. His number had always been blocked when he'd called her and John had destroyed the phone she'd once carried as her link to them. She'd tried calling John's number, but she hadn't been a bit surprised to find the number not in service.

Without access to police resources or her former acquaintances' omnipotence, tracking someone down was difficult. But she needed to find John and the only way to find him was to find Finch. The only hint she had of where to find the recluse was a sarcastic comment she'd overheard John making to his boss regarding the latter's precious books. She spent that night scouring an old phonebook, slow but private, looking for ideas of where Finch could be hiding out. She'd thrown the book in frustration when she had come up empty, realizing after a few hours that he wasn't hanging out in a bookstore or running a publishing house.

She was tired, her emotions raw from the night, as she sat on the kitchen floor and wondered if maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe she'd wanted to see him so badly she'd conjured up a little fantasy where John had finally touched her the way she'd secretly hoped he would since the first time she'd seen him clean-shaven.

Despite the exhausted, abused state of her body, she truly started to believe it hadn't happened. She abandoned the kitchen, trying to think of why her legs were shaking from something she'd imagined. The moment she turned into the living room, however, she was faced with the evidence she couldn't deny. Broken glass, furniture askew, front door not fully closed. It had really happened.

And he hurt a hell of a lot more than she did, which frightened her.

She closed the front door and threw the lock, deciding since Taylor was staying with his grandmother that the mess could wait until the morning. She needed a shower and sleep and then she could figure out what the hell she was going to do. But when she tripped over the phone book lying in the hall where it had landed, she couldn't ignore it.

It was right there in front of her.

It had fallen open to a list of libraries. The perfect hideaway for an eclectic weirdo who liked books.

#####

It took her three days. Three impossibly long days, using Fusco's computer whenever he wasn't at his desk, searching through old phone books to keep her mission from producing any records Snow could ever follow. Armed with a list of closed libraries, she tackled them one at a time, determined to find the man who was her only hope of finding John.

Had she been working a regular case, she would have had a partner with whom to split the list. Instead she had to do it all herself, pounding on locked doors of dark buildings with no encouragement whatsoever. Until finally, in the midst of her pounding, a door opened. She was shocked for a moment, surprised at something resembling success. She withdrew her gun, telling herself she was infinitely more likely to find a gang or a group of squatters than Finch.

The first floor was in shambles more or less, books strewn everywhere, library stacks knocked over, graffiti sprayed on the walls. It caught her attention, however, that there was no dust. No cobwebs or rats running around. She climbed the stairs, weapon in hand, but no longer raised. She knew she was right. She could just tell.

The second floor was a different story altogether, neatly arranged shelves, and more obviously, heat and light.

She holstered her gun and followed the sound of typing until she came upon him, sitting in front of his bank of computers, a screen in front of him revealing her progress. She shook her head.

"Took you long enough, Detective." He spoke before he turned around, his body moving stiffly as he shifted to make eye contact. "I would have expected more from you."

She ignored the bait. "I need to find John."

He sized her up before he shrugged. "Yes, well, it doesn't appear he wants to be found." Though he hid it well, she could see how angry he was. He hadn't wanted to lose John either, and he most certainly blamed her.

She moved closer, holding out her phone. "He called me."

Finch couldn't hide the shock. "That doesn't sound like him." He glanced at her phone, but didn't take it. "He's not really much of a talker."

She dropped the phone on his desk. "I need you to find out where he called from. You can do that, can't you?"

"I could, if I were so inclined." He turned away from her. "I'm not, by the way."

She wasn't shy. She surged forward, spinning Finch's chair around, forcing him to look at her while she leaned into his face to intimidate him. "I can get him back for you. Find out where he called from. Now."

Finch's startled eyes held hers, finally moving lower for a brief moment. She knew what he was looking at. Even three days later, the dark bruise stood out on her throat, evidence of the control that had snapped in John.

Swallowing hard and snarling in distaste, Finch pursed his lips. "I'm quite convinced you're the reason he left. What makes you think he wants to see you."

"Because he wants to hear what I have to say."

"I never understood why he trusted you." He twisted his chair away and typed something on his computer. "You certainly haven't been very nice to him."

"Give me a damn address and then we can go back to despising one another." She was going to threaten what she'd do to him otherwise, but her attention was called to what he'd brought up on the screen, a video feed from a surveillance camera, the quality was awful, but the figure was unmistakable. There was John, his eyes closed, his face twisted in pain, the phone receiver pressed to his ear.

A few keystrokes later, there was another feed, a much better quality, showing the tears running down his face.

"You made him cry, detective. I'm not sure anyone has ever achieved that before. Congratulations."

She wanted to cry herself, knowing she'd hurt him hadn't been nearly so painful as seeing evidence of it. Tapping the screen, she forced back her tears. "Where is this? Where is he?"

He indicated the screen, as the video showed John disappearing into a motel. "He hasn't come out since. I'm actually worried about his well-being."

Three days in a by-the-hour dive. He'd probably been living there the previous few days as well. He'd spent a week in the dive, probably in the same clothes. Probably drinking. He'd been in rough shape when she'd seen him; she knew he wasn't any better off, having likely given up altogether. Coming to see her had been his last ditch effort. She knew that now.

With a shaky voice she barely recognized, she questioned Finch. "What's the address?"

Finch pushed her phone at her, motioning at the computer monitor that showed the name of the motel. "Can't you do anything?"

"The fucking CIA is watching me and Snow shows up in my path whenever the hell he wants. Anything I do, he's likely to find out about." She glared at Finch, reminding him that she absolutely wouldn't have anything to do with him if it was up to her. "That bastard still thinks I'm going to lead him to John."

Finch snarled at her. "I wonder where he ever got that idea."

"When I find him, I'm going to tell him what a great help you've been." Snatching her phone off the desk, she started searching for the address.

Before she finished typing in the name, Finch had scribbled down the address on a slip of paper. And then she was on her way, moving with a purpose.

#####

Mindful of her CIA friends, she was especially paranoid. She hadn't cared too much if she led Snow to Finch's lair, but John, that was different. John hadn't been in any shape to defend himself against his former friends. She didn't want to waste any more time either, so she was as careful as she possibly could be while she hurried.

He'd waited long enough for her to come to her senses.

It seemed like forever had come and gone by the time she opened the door, her eyes barely lighting on the phone he'd used to call her. She had to get to him; her anxiety was growing by leaps and bounds as she got closer.

A flash of her badge at the counter and a flight of stairs later, she was standing at a door, the door that was the last thing separating them. She knocked, her eyes sliding sideways at the manager, hoping she was convincing him that she was there on business instead of… well, instead of whatever she was there for. It wouldn't be pleasure, not with the despondent way she was sure to find John.

She waited for any kind of response, any sound from inside the room. Then she pounded harder. "Police, open up!"

The only response she got were a few doors down the hall opening, glancing at her and then going back to whatever illegal activities they were engrossed in.

She looked at the manager. "Open it."

He looked uncertain, checking over his shoulders. "You got a warrant or something?"

"No, I don't." She glared. "Open the damn door or I'll kick it in."

He shrugged. "Yeah, ok." He turned the key in the lock and disappeared down the hall before Jos even realized the door was open.

As soon as she was alone, she eased the door open. "John?" It would be a very bad idea to surprise him, particularly if he was drunk. He was a dangerous man, after all. But there was no response and as she stepped through the door, she wondered if silence was all she was going to get, if he intended to stonewall her, if he had already decided he was done with her.

The room was eerily still as she closed the door behind her, the mindless drone of CNN far too happy a sound for the dark room. The lights were off and the curtains drawn, the flickering television the only source of light in the room. She edged forward terrified, her heart pounding as she realized that she was infinitely more afraid of what she would find than what he would do if he were angry. He was a suicide risk, she realized belatedly, a middle-aged loner, no family, no job, no friends, and a recently ended relationship of some sort with her. That was what Finch had been alluding to when he said he feared for John's well-being.

Drawing out the inevitable wasn't her style, so she took a deep breath to steel herself against any possible outcomes, and stepped around the corner of the bathroom.

He was face down on the bed, his jacket cast aside, though still dressed in the pants and shirt he'd been wearing a week earlier. He didn't move at all in response to her entrance.

"John, wake up." She waited a moment, spying the disturbing pile of empty whiskey bottles on the floor and the one in his lax hand. Shaking her head, she decided the lecture would be better served when he was sober. "John!"

When he didn't move or even groan at her shout, she flipped the light switch.

Finally able to make out more than a darkened outline, she knew the situation was much worse than she'd thought. His skin was pale, his lips blue.

"John, oh my god!" She crawled onto the bed, fighting his heavy, unresponsive body as she rolled him onto his back. His skin was cold to the touch when she felt for a pulse. "John, please," she cried, her hand shaking so hard she barely felt the irregular movement. She wanted to reach for her phone and call a bus, but she couldn't. Snow would know. He would find them. He would let John die.

Instead she grabbed the hard line phone next to the bed as she pulled the blanket over him. As soon as she heard the sound of Finch's voice, she cut him off. "I need help. He's sick. You need to send a car and someone to help me carry him, room two-thirteen."

His voice reflected his concern. "What do you mean sick? Has he done something rash?"

"I think it's alcohol poisoning, but I don't know. I'm not a damn doctor!" She hung up, unable to waste precious time dealing with Finch. She ran her hand along his face, gripping his chin, shaking him. "John, wake up!"

She couldn't believe this nearly lifeless man was the same one who'd been so strong, so determined, so full of life and energy and passion.

Grabbing his collar, she shook him again. "John, wake the fuck up!"

When he moaned in response, she almost cried in relief.

She leaned into his face, ignoring the awful stench of whiskey that assaulted her. "John! Did you take anything?" She glanced around, looking for evidence of anything besides alcohol. Alcohol poisoning was dangerous enough, she didn't want to think he might have done worse to himself, but she had to. She dug her nails through his shirt, into his skin, hoping the pain would help bring him around.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, unseeing.

She stood up, searching through the limited contents of the room, pleased that there was no evidence of anything else he could have ingested. Luckily, she also found a single bottle of water. Returning to his side, she lifted his shoulders and propped him up against her. "Here, John, you need water. You need to get the alcohol out of your system." She pressed the bottle to his mouth, urging him to drink, though he didn't. "Please, John, work with me."

He grunted, turning away.

She took his chin in her hands and wrenched his face back to look at her. "Damn it, John, don't do this to me!"

His eyes fluttered again, his mouth moving, no sound coming out.

"Just try to drink, ok? Finch is sending someone to help us." At least, she assumed he was. She doubted he'd just let John die.

It felt like forever before there was a knock on the door, a tall, thick blond man peering around the corner a moment later. "Mr. Finch sent me."

"Oh, thank Jesus!" She stood, carefully lowering John's head back down onto the bed. "What the hell took so long?"

The man made up for lost time, quickly sliding one of his enormous arms under John and lifting him, tossing the barely conscious man over his shoulder like he was a feather. The awful groan John issued in protest made her happy, if only because he was more aware than when she'd first found him.

She didn't bother to argue with him, simply followed as he led her back to the car, roughly tossing John in the backseat. She climbed in beside him, lifting her head onto his lap, feeling bad for his intermittent whimpers. One of her hands cradled his head while the other gripped one of his. His fingers were still icy cold, his skin a pale gray which she couldn't really call an improvement from the vaguely blue tint it had held minutes earlier. At least they were moving, heading somewhere to get John some help.

But after the driver went right past the second hospital without hitting the breaks she had to speak up. "Hey, this man is sick and needs medical attention. Where the hell are we going?" The driver didn't give any indication he even heard her. She turned her attention back to John, willing him to be ok. Although most college students would declare it a rite of passage, as a cop she'd seen plenty of incidences that ended very badly. She pushed them out of her head, unable, unwilling, to think of John dead or with permanent brain damage. That was what she'd been trying to avoid, after all, by cutting ties with him.

The car turned into a parking garage, moving deliberately past open spaces before coming to a stop at a door on the sixth floor. Her mute friend got out of the car and opened the trunk. Unsure of what else to do, Jos got out and stood beside the open car door. She shouldn't have been amazed to see the man pulling a wheelchair from the trunk, but every once in a while she forgot Finch was, well, Finch. Of course he'd send the driver with a less obvious way of transporting an unconscious man than slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

It was a good thing, she realized, when the driver loaded John into the chair and propelled him through the door. No, while no one had batted an eyelash at the two of them escorting John out of the dive he'd been staying in, the upscale hotel Finch had procured would definitely have noticed and probably called the police.

Ten feet down the hall, the driver stopped and tapped sharply on a door. Finch opened it, something almost like a smile appearing when he recognized Jos and the other man, however it faded immediately on seeing John.

"Good god," he motioned toward the interior. "Thank you, Mr. Roth. Dr. Tillman is waiting." He met her eyes for a brief moment. "Detective."

She didn't bother responding, not when she was liable to berate the bastard for renting a hotel room when John should have been in a damn hospital bed. Instead, she followed Roth into the room, vaguely surprised to find a young woman with long brown hair waiting between the bed and a table covered with medical supplies.

She turned a friendly smile toward Jos while Roth placed John on the bed, but as soon as the driver stepped away, the doctor was all business. She examined John, grilled Jos about any details she had, and then went about starting up an IV. John muttered something in complaint when she stuck the needle in his arm, which she declared was a great sign. As soon as she finished that task, she covered him with several blankets and turned back to her audience.

Roth had quickly disappeared, but Finch and Jos were waiting, the former with barely concealed worry, the latter not bothering to pretend. The doctor smiled, extending her hand to Jos. "I'm Megan Tillman."

It was instinct that caused Jos to shake the woman's hand when she wanted to scream at her for information. "Detective Carter."

Tillman's eyes widened a bit at the title, then darted to Finch as she shook her head. "I'm not even going to ask." She inclined her head toward John. "Barring ingestion of substances of which I'm not aware, it looks like alcohol poisoning. The hypothermia, the irregular heartbeat, mostly absent reflexes, it adds up. If I had access to-"

Finch jumped in, his phone at the ready. "Name it, anything you need, just give me twenty minutes." Jos wanted to hate him for his cockiness, but she was certain he wasn't trying to show off. He was simply speaking the truth.

"A hospital," she finished with an unimpressed glare, "I'd have his stomach pumped and admit him for observation. Getting the alcohol out of his system is the most important step right now, along with getting him hydrated. The IV will do its part, and hopefully John will do the rest." She glanced at him, nodding when he grunted something unintelligible without opening his eyes. "As soon as he regains consciousness, I'll be able to better able to assess him."

Finch reached out, shaking Tillman's hand, then holding it between both of his. "Thank you so much, Dr. Tillman. Your kindness is appreciated."

She smiled uneasily as she withdrew her hand. "As was John's discretion."

With a rueful sigh, Jos wondered if John and Finch had dirt on everyone in the city. It would go a long way toward explaining how they managed to get access to everything they needed. Although, she realized, they'd managed to reel her into their web easily enough. She imagined a few of John's smiles were enough to convince most women and many men to willingly do whatever he told them.

Tillman sat down in one of the arm chairs across the room and picked up a magazine from the table. Finch walked toward the other room of the suite, pausing at the door to look at the two women. "You'll let me know if there are any developments, Dr. Tillman?"

She smiled and nodded. "He'll most likely sleep for several hours. His body will concentrate on healing itself from this assault."

Finch offered a tight smile. "I'll be awake." Then he disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.

It was only then, while she was being thoroughly ignored by both other conscious occupants of the suite that she considered what she was supposed to do with herself. She had a job she was supposed to be working, which she'd been completely ignoring for days. She also had her son, the protection of whom had started the whole domino chain in the first place.

But then there was John, the man who cared so much about her that he literally couldn't face living without her companionship. He'd quit his job, abandoned any friends he had, and tried to drink himself to death. That was a level of attachment she'd never before had directed at her. No, he hadn't been quite able to communicate it to her in a traditional way, but she had to consider his suicide attempt, whether active or passive, every bit as heartfelt as any verbal confession of love could have been.

She couldn't leave him. Not again. She had to be there when he woke up, she had to be the first thing he saw when he realized he was still alive because she knew she had been the only thing on his mind when he'd passed out. She thought about pulling one of the fancy chairs over closer to the bed, but she knew it would be a long night and, quite frankly, they didn't look that comfortable. After a glance back at Tillman, who wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, she took a seat on the side of the bed. Reaching over, she wrapped her hand around his.

She'd wait. No matter how long it took. He deserved that much from her.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

The wait was longer than she'd anticipated.

And though she'd tried as hard as she could, outlasting both Finch and Tillman, the time had come for her eyes to close as well. She'd been vaguely aware of lying down beside him as her eyes started to droop, but something had changed since then.

First of all, her pillow was hard and warm and breathing.

And she was fairly certain there was an arm around her.

The room was dark, lit only by the hotel-supplied nightlights at the electrical outlets and the slightest hint of street lights peeking around the edges of the thick curtains. It took her a moment to remember where she was and who she was with, and even then, what she remembered didn't mesh with the situation. She'd stretched out next to the unconscious man, but apparently she'd moved in her sleep, rolling against his side, throwing her arm over his stomach.

She supposed it was good news that he'd been conscious enough to wrap his arm around her as well.

There was heat radiating from his body in place of the deathly cold that had been there earlier. She looked up, wanting to see his beautiful eyes open and aware, terrified that he'd still be angry. Instead, he was staring back at her, his eyes hooded and tired, but locked on hers. His lips moved, but she reached up, touching her fingers to them.

"Shhh, get some rest." She lowered her fingers, tracing them over his lips and chin, then down his chest. He looked worried, upset, nervous, something. "I'll be here when you wake up. We can talk about it then."

He searched her eyes, the need to tell her something warring with the desire to follow her instructions.

"Sleep, John. You need to get better." She could see it then, in the tear that escaped his eye and rolled down into his hair, that he was truly afraid she wouldn't be there when he woke up. She leaned over, lifting his other arm, indicating the IV that was attached. "It's real, John, I'm here and I'm not leaving."

There were more tears gathering and she hated to see them, but she was glad that he wasn't hiding them. She turned her head and pressed a kiss against his shirt. His arm tightened around her as though he questioned her promise to be there when he woke. But eventually it relaxed, his sleep coming just as hers did.

#####

The next time she awoke, it was morning. Daylight was streaming in through the open curtains and the lamps throughout the room were on as well. She'd had a rough week, her emotions running high the whole time, and she hadn't been sleeping well for ages. Apparently even an unconscious John Reese made her feel safe, because she'd slept like a log. Wanting more of the comfort and security, she turned her face into his chest, trying to block out the light and go back to sleep.

But as soon as she found the darkness by pressing her face into his body, her ears perked up, hearing voices, letting her know that not only was she not the only one awake, but that they were well aware of her less-than-professional behavior.

It was John's raspy voice that she heard first, loving the sound of it, the idea that he was awake and talking, before she understood his words. "What the hell is she doing here, Finch?"

For a brief moment, Jos considered how he'd stared at her during the night and decided he had to be talking about Tillman rather than herself. His arm was still wrapped around her, after all, though she was rather mortified that Finch had seen her asleep in John's arms.

Finch's answer, his irritated voice, brought reality crashing down around her. "She found you, Mr. Reese. She's the reason you're alive." He paused, probably looking for a polite way to phrase the rest of his words. "Though I understand you may not be particularly thankful."

"She didn't find me on her own, Finch."

It was then that she realized John couldn't get his arm away from her until she moved.

Which she was far too embarrassed to do just then.

"She found me, Mr. Reese. Quite impressive, I must admit, considering that she didn't use any police resources to do it. We'll have to move our base of operations, or I will, if you're going to continue your sabbatical."

"So you gave me up. Remind me to repay the favor someday." His gruff voice demonstrated his displeasure. But he gave no indication that she was awake, something she was absolutely certain he knew. Perhaps, she decided hopefully, he was just as embarrassed to be caught like that by his boss.

Finch's voice sounded from across the room. "I thought it was in your own best interests. Certainly knowing she was concerned enough to track me down will be of some comfort. Not to mention," he stopped and Jos could just about see the disgust on his face, "that her current location seems to indicate she's not as disinterested as she might have led you to believe last week. Anyway, the room is paid up for the week and there are some clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bathroom if you'd like to make use of the shower at some point. I have some work to do, but you know how to reach me if you need me. I expect you know to follow Tillman's instructions or face Detective Carter's wrath."

"Yes, dad." He was quiet for a moment, waiting until the door opened and closed. "You can get up now, Carter, he's gone."

Somehow, despite the circumstances, despite how intimate they'd been, or perhaps of how intimate they'd been, it was just as difficult, if not more so, to face John. She'd been ready to yell at him the day before when she'd gone looking for him, but after spending the night asleep in his arms, her defenses were gone. She took a deep breath, unsure of what she was going to say. Should she scream at him for his carelessness? Or beg him to be more careful? Tell him that she'd realized what a mistake trying to leave him had been?

His hand moved from her back, his fingers combing through her hair. "Or you can stay."

Oh, thank god, she thought. His apparent lack of enthusiasm at her presence had been for Finch's benefit.

She sat up, determined to face the music. It was hard to look at him, hard to let anyone, even John, see her vulnerability. He needed to see it, though, she reminded herself. He needed to know she cared. The John Reese everyone knew was a front; she knew the man behind it was just as vulnerable as she was. Folding her legs, she sat next to him on the bed, allowing a bit of contact between them where her knee touched his side. It was up to him if he didn't want it.

Then she met his eyes, steeling herself for whatever she might find. She needn't have worried, though, because there was only warmth reflected there. So she let herself smile, celebrating that he was ok. "I'd love to stay, John, but we need to talk."

He stared at her for a long time, his eyes trying to find some unspoken answer in hers. When he looked away, it seemed his whole body had deflated. "There really isn't anything to say."

"There's plenty." She folded her arms over her chest and prepared to fight. Their relationship, his life, both were worth fighting for even if he didn't seem to know.

"You didn't want to discuss it when you left. You just did and I was supposed to accept that. So what's there to talk about now?" He was staring anywhere but at her and it bugged her. John never said much with his words, he communicated with his eyes, which made it impossible to talk to him when he wouldn't look at her.

"Just out of curiosity, were you trying to kill yourself or was it an accident?"

He shrugged one shoulder, shifting his body around suddenly after having been very still for a very long time. He was uncomfortable with the topic. Good. Now he knew how she felt.

"Because if you were trying, congratulations, you damn near succeeded. Next time, use a gun, there's less chance of intervention that way." She grabbed his chin and pulled him to face her. "Would you have wanted to find me like that?"

"That would never happen to you." His eyes darted to hers, but only for a moment. "You have too much to-"

She waited for him to finish the sentence and when he didn't, she objected anyway. "So do you."

He scoffed, apparently ignorant of how much trouble she and Finch had gone to in order to keep him alive. "I'm sure you have somewhere to be, Carter. I'm stuck here for a while." He was looking at the IV still taped to his arm, which she knew full well wouldn't stop him if he actually wanted to leave.

"I want to know if you meant it, John, or if it was just an accident." She shook her head, unable to stand the thought that he'd really been trying to kill himself, yet knowing that having the question alone meant he was in a hell of a lot more pain than he ever let on. "I swear, John, you lie to me right now, I will hurt you."

His eyes moved to hers, their cold blue color giving her a glimpse of what he meant to say. She'd already hurt him plenty. There was nothing she could do worse than she'd already done.

And then it was her turn to let the tears fall. She didn't fight them. He needed to see how much she was hurting too, how much he mattered to her.

His hand moved, falling on her leg, squeezing gently. "Jos, don't-"

"You tried to kill yourself because of something I did, I'm allowed to be upset."

He winced, but maintained eye contact. "I wasn't so much trying to kill myself so much as I didn't care either way."

"How could you be so careless? Do you have any idea how it felt to walk into that room and find you blue and cold?" She stopped to wipe at her tears. "Jesus, John, don't you ever do that to me again."

He withdrew his hand, his eyes avoiding hers again. "I'm sorry. I had no intention of..." His eyes moved back to hers. "I didn't know you'd find me. I really didn't expect you to come looking for me." He didn't need to add that he didn't think she cared. She already knew that was what he meant.

"I didn't want you to get hurt, John, that's why I tried to quit. I didn't want to lead Snow to you. Why would I try to protect you if I didn't care?" She'd thought he'd known somehow how she felt, but she realized now that would have been impossible. She certainly didn't know how he felt about her, hadn't thought he cared at all until she saw what her actions had done to him. He'd never hurt her like that, he'd never betrayed her, he'd never had the painful opportunity to realize what he meant to her, so how the hell would he know she had fallen in love with him if she didn't tell him?

"You were protecting Taylor, not me. I understand completely that you want to keep him safe, but please don't pretend it was about me."

"It was for both of you. Taylor being followed was the last straw, but I thought it was the safest thing for everyone. Snow is all over me and I don't know how to keep working with you without getting you killed and myself arrested." She reached out, taking his hand and holding it in both of hers. "But not being with you doesn't really seem to be working out for either of us."

He didn't say anything, but his eyes shifted to hers suddenly, light and clear for the first time in a long time when he looked at her. One side of his mouth curled in a smirk. "I definitely prefer waking up to you rather than a bottle of whiskey."

She shook her head, a familiar feeling of affection and annoyance taking over her. "You touch a damn bottle again, John, and I will hit you over the head with it."

"Noted." He moved his hand back to rest on her knee again.

"Like I said, I don't know how to do this without getting in trouble, but-"

"Don't." His hand squeezed her knee. "I'm sorry I scared you, Jos, but please don't think it was to force your hand."

She shook her head, reaching out to lay her hand atop his. "I made a mistake, John. A huge mistake. I don't know how to make this work, I admit it, but I trust you. You said you can protect me and Taylor." She shifted closer, her hand moving to his chest. "So you can't be doing anything crazy and stupid like this anymore, not if you're responsible for us."

He stared at her, his expression carefully blank, his eyes searching her face for any indication of a double meaning. Slowly, finally, a wide smile started to work its way across his face, eventually lighting his eyes in a way Jos had never seen. His hand covered hers, squeezing it before his fingers threaded through hers. "Really?"

She nodded, her own smile answering his. "Really."

He ginned at her for a long time before he nodded toward the other room. "I'm just going to take a quick shower and," he glanced at his worse-for-wear suit, "change. Give me a minute?"

"Is that a good idea?" Her eyes fell on the IV line still attached. "Shouldn't you rest for a while?"

"I don't need to rest." He made quick work of the line, yanking it out and applying the bandage that Tillman had left for him. "I feel better than I ever have."

She knew he wasn't kidding when he got up a moment later, surprisingly agile for a man who'd been almost deathly intoxicated a few hours beforehand. Of course, judging from the way he looked back and smiled at her before he ducked into the bathroom, she suspected that his emotional state made up for any physical deficits he might be experiencing.

Though she'd only gotten to see it once, and only for a minute, she liked seeing him happy. She liked being the reason he was happy. She liked that she was sitting on the bed they'd shared, even chastely, with a stupid grin on her face.

She knew continuing to work with him would be dangerous. She knew the stakes were as high as ever. But she knew he was a man of his word and he would do everything in his power to protect her and her son. As she thought about it, she realized trusting John with her safety was less of a risk than crossing the street. He'd die before he let anyone hurt her or Taylor.

#####

Apparently a little bit of encouragement was all the man needed. He was showered and shaved when he returned to the bed, his minty-fresh breath making her worry about her lack of a toothbrush. But he didn't seem to mind, or even notice, as he joined her, giving her no warning whatsoever when he reached over to cup the back of her head and pull her in for a kiss.

She wanted to laugh at his confidence level, considering the depths to which it had sunk when he thought she didn't want him, but hell, she could hardly blame him for being encouraged by the fact that she'd just put her life, and her son's, in his hands. That had to be a hell of a confidence boost. Of course, her desire to laugh, as well as her ability to form a coherent thought, quickly disappeared.

When he pulled back, his eyes held hers, an almost shy smile lighting his face. "Sorry, I've just wanted to do that for a long time. Wasn't sure you'd let me."

Raising an eyebrow, she looked at him. Had he had so much to drink that he'd actually forgotten what happened? She averted her eyes for a moment, unsure how the hell she'd ever find the words to tell him.

He shrugged and ducked his head. "You know, after what I did."

"You didn't do anything I didn't agree to." As much as she wished he'd had to at least twist her arm, he hadn't. She'd wanted him so badly she would have done anything he suggested.

He shook his head. "No one argues with me when I'm that angry."

Her hand seemed to move of its own accord, her fingers sliding along his chin, and she reveled in having the freedom to touch him, to see his eyes close in response to her touch. "I'm not afraid of you, even when you're angry." When his eyes darted up to her, his face incredulous, she continued. "You wouldn't hurt me. Besides," her hand moved back to his and curled around it, "you weren't angry. You were hurt."

"It doesn't matter how I felt. I never should have touched you like that." He seemed to be folding in on himself before her eyes, his confidence receding as quickly as it had reappeared.

"Maybe you don't remember, John, but you asked my permission." Realizing that she needed to distract him from his guilt trip or risk losing him again, she was filled with purpose. She sat up on her knees, moving to straddle him, depositing herself unceremoniously in his lap, successfully earning his full attention. "You asked my permission and you got it. Do you hear me?"

He stared up at her, shock and desire warring in his eyes. "I thought I might have coerced that out of you."

She nodded, pretending to consider his words as she lightly dragged her nails down his chest. Then she leaned in, sliding her hands back up to spread his open collar, pressing her lips to the exposed skin of his throat. Her mouth moved to his ear, her voice a purr as she whispered. "Am I coercing you now?"

She felt his chuckle in the breath he released against her cheek, then the rumble in his chest as he answered. "Yes, detective, I believe you are."

She laughed too, moving her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks. "Are you going to be mad about it?"

"No, I don't see that happening." His hands were on her hips, touching, exploring, teasing her skin with gentle brushes of the pads of his fingers on her skin.

"Well, then, shut the fuck up about you having coerced me, ok?"

"Yeah, ok." He kissed her again, his lips pressing against hers possessively.

She would have liked to stay there forever, exploring his body, letting him do the same, giving into the almost unbearable desire to touch him, but she had to draw the line. She hated having to stop, feared that by doing so she would make him nervous about her having changed her mind. Still, it had to be done.

Reluctantly sitting back, she broke the kiss and waited a beat to catch her breath. "John, wait."

His eyes immediately widened, his hands falling away from her. "What?"

With a smirk, she grabbed his hands and replaced them on her legs. "I'm tempted, very, very tempted," pausing to prove her point, she leaned forward and kissed his lips. "But we kind of jumped into this the first time, so I think we should slow down." It took everything she had to tamp down on her desire to ignore her own words and shift off his lap, but she managed it, snuggling into his side and throwing her arm around him. "Besides, you weren't in great shape last night. I'd hate to wear you out so soon."

"But what a way to go." He was grinning as he nuzzled her neck.

She pulled back, taking in the smile as she mirrored it. "I like seeing you smile," she said, finally giving voice to the thought she'd had earlier. Dragging her nails over his chest, she fought back the urge to climb back on top of him. "I like making you smile."

He continued to smile at her, his eyes searching hers as always. "You are pretty good at it."

"I seem to be pretty good at making you cry, too." Her expression turned deathly serious. "Promise me you won't ever do anything this stupid again, John."

He nodded, his eyes darting away from hers, embarrassment and guilt warring for position on his face.

Sitting up and gripping his chin, she forced him to face her. "Promise."

His eyes held hers for a long time before he nodded again. "I promise."

"Ok, good, that's settled." With an irrepressible grin once again lighting her face, she settled back down against his side. "So what do you want to do today?"

"Absolutely nothing." He tightened his arm around her, assuring her that her presence was required.

"I can do that." Her fingers traced over his shirt, sliding in between the buttons to caress his bare skin. "Maybe." She hadn't felt so incredibly content in a long time. Someday she was going to tell him how good he was for her. Until then, she'd settle for being good for him.

~end~


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